"Here I go."
"Yeah," said Randy. He didn't smile. He couldn't. But he did have a fine air of nonchalance as he said, "See you soon."
There was no handshake. It would have been too much like saying good-by. McCauley started up the ladder.
It was a long climb; and three-quarters of the way up, with all the assorted gimmicks and the clumsy chute-pack banging against his buttocks, he began to breathe fast. Once he stepped on a trailing cable. He looked down and was annoyed to find that the height bothered him—a man who would presently be up many miles higher than any man had ever been before. And this was only tens of feet, yet he felt giddy! He didn't look down again.
He reached the door in the nose-cone and climbed in. He'd practiced it. He felt easier when he was inside. Up here, on top of several tons of rocket fuel, he felt safer because there was a floor under him. He grimaced at the foolishness of it. Rocket fuel is highly explosive; a rocket works because a continuous explosion is taking place in its engine. But McCauley felt safer sitting on enough hydrazine and nitric to blow him to atoms than coming up a narrow, springy ladder.
Laboriously he settled himself. The acceleration chair had been tailored to fit him in this suit. He got the trailing cables clear and made himself comfortable. Then he waited. He could stir a little, but not much. It was, of course, extremely comforting to be able to move his feet in even limited swings.
The nose-cone door darkened. Somebody reached in and plugged the cables into their proper sockets. He hauled straps from nowhere and buckled them.
"Here's your helmet, Lieutenant," he said.
"Thanks," said McCauley.
He put it on. Air began to flow past his face and he knew that all the gadgets in his suit were hooked in, and that back in the blockhouse they could count his breaths and tell how deep they were, they were getting a continuous cardiogram to tell how his heart was working, and they had a running record of his blood pressure. If he panicked now they'd know it. The man outside the nose-cone door poked around like a hen fussing over a solitary chick. McCauley wished he'd go away. A voice sounded in the helmet earphones.